


Broken

by Assume That I Will Never Finish These (Cutie_314)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 31 Aug 2018, Explicit sex scenes, Fluffiness, Healing, I do hope/plan to get back to this one day..., Just consider it a oneshot for now..., M/M, PSTD, Psychological Trauma, Psychology Conditioning, Rambling in the tags...., Slow Updates, So most of these tags don’t apply yet... oops..., Work In Progress, attempted suicide, m/m - Freeform, one day...., will update tags when necessary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 05:29:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10960674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutie_314/pseuds/Assume%20That%20I%20Will%20Never%20Finish%20These
Summary: The war is over, but not for Harry, much as he tries to put it behind him like everyone else. It seems Fate too has other ideas for the hero, and soon his enemy is returned to him in the guise of the charming young Tom Riddle.





	Broken

Tom forced himself to hold an appearance of nonchalance as he waited in the interview room. He still didn't understand exactly what happened mere days ago, and no one had been forthcoming in explaining anything to him, nor allowing him access to any resources to research the matter himself. In fact, he was being treated with the suspicion accorded to the worst kind of criminal, when all he could account for being guilty of was smashing a mirror and accidentally finding himself inexplicably transported into the heart of the Department of Mysteries. He could understand that the Unspeakables and Aurors would treat such an occurrence with wariness, but he couldn’t help but feel that the animosity they'd shown him was more to do with him personally rather than his method of arrival. Now he was waiting on some kind of expert who sounded like he would be the one to determine his fate, which didn't give the room an ominous atmosphere at all…

He resisted the urge to scoff at the thought. For three days now he'd held himself under perfect control, showing no more than the brilliant but confused seventh year student he was supposed to be. He'd even been mostly honest in answering all the questions about who he was and what happened in the lead up to the shattering of the mirror. Despite his usual charm, however, he couldn't seem to sway anyone to tell him what was going on. He'd begin to break down someone's defence, he'd see that pity and trust growing in their eyes that he was exactly who he portrayed himself to be, but, the next time they appeared, the distrust and, dare he say it, hatred in their gaze would be even more prominent than it had been initially. No matter what he tried, it seemed his efforts were being sabotaged the moment anyone left his room, and still he didn’t understand either their attitude nor the situation. He just hoped the impending expert would offer him answers even as they sought their own.

The door suddenly clicked open, and Tom resisted the urge to snap his gaze towards it. Instead he took a steadying breath and calmly looked up from where his hands were loosely clasped on the tabletop…

…and immediately frowned in offended surprise at the sight of the so-called expert. He'd met with Aurors and Unspeakables three, four, perhaps even five times his age over the past few days, and yet they presented a boy no older than himself as some sort of expert. Exactly what was this boy supposed to know that adults more than twice their age were ignorant to, that they would defer to the expertise of someone little more than a child.

The teen sat across from him, setting a box on the table before him. Tom lifted his chin slightly when he met the emerald eyes that instantly had him reassessing this stranger. This raven haired boy was no boy. His verdant gaze was fathomless but sharp, hollow but seeing everything. This boy looked at him like a warrior assessing his foe. Tom leaned back in his seat, making himself look comfortable to disguise how disconcerted this visitor had made him. A faint smirk touched the raven’s lips as though he could see exactly what Tom was doing, and Tom's eyes narrowed minutely in response.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle…” the raven began, the name rolling off his tongue with a purr. It almost sounded intimate as his name passed through those soft, lush lips, like a lovers caress, except that Tom saw the flash of pure malevolence in the viridian eyes that was so much stronger than the hatred he'd seen in the gaze of his other visitors. Tom had to force himself not to shiver at the intimate inconsistencies, had to force himself not to hold himself defensively (before this stranger he felt like prey in a way he hadn't in years). Instead, Tom grinned warmly in welcome, determined not to betray how off balanced this boy made him, refusing to show any weakness.

“That's correct,” he agreed amicably. “You appear to have me at a disadvantage, Mr…?” He waited expectantly, but the silence only dragged out between them. Those poison eyes sat uncomfortably upon him, but the raven’s expression gave nothing of his thoughts away. Slowly, Tom let his own friendly grin slip. He didn't think it would impinge on his portrayed character if he were to neglect to treat this youth with absolute courtesy if the other was going to treat him with such undisguised disdain; surely such would be expected of a man his age.

The raven pulled the box closer to himself and carefully opened the lid. Tom wasn't sure what to expect to be inside, but it hadn't been his own belongings which had been confiscated when he first arrived in the Department of Mysteries, belongings which were being laid one by one on the table in front of him like they held as much significance to the stranger as they did to him. Tom's lips twitched in annoyance despite his control at the arrogance the other was showing. This green eyed raven knew nothing of him. Who was he to judge him? What sort of expert was he supposed to be?

The dark haired boy picked up Tom's family ring, studying the jewellery intently as he did so. He turned it over a few times in his hands, the action looking far too deliberate and yet utterly baffling, then he glanced around the empty room. His gaze seemed to pause at random intervals, then he focused back on Tom, setting the heirloom back on the surface between them. His gaze was sharp, yet somehow satisfied, as though he'd received some sort of abstract confirmation that Tom couldn't fathom.

“What's this?” the raven ask, his voice deceptively bland.

Tom lifted his chin again in minute defiance. “It's a ring.” His voice was gently scathing as he answered, but his minute disrespect was only met with another hint of a smirk and a flash of victory in the viridian eyes. Tom silently bristled. This brat was deliberately trying to wind him up. Even worse, he was succeeding.

“Just a ring,” the raven deadpanned. “So, you won't have any objection to me destroying it with, say, fiendfire or basilisk venom?”

Tom hid his incredulity. It was one thing to threaten to destroy it to get answers, but surely threatening basilisk venom was a little over the top. “I’d prefer if you didn't,” he replied with faux calm. “It’s my family ring.”

“And where did you get it?” the youth quickly followed up.

“From my family, of course.” Tom couldn't understand this line of questioning. The other was obviously looking for something specific, but Tom didn't know what it was, and therefore he didn't know if he should give him what he was seeking or if he should keep those secrets, whatever those secrets were… Tom's biggest problem was, without knowing what the dark haired youth wanted, he didn't know what secrets needed to be shared or kept, or if he'd even given something away unawares.

“Specifically,” the raven pressed, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “Was it from your uncle, Morfin Gaunt?”

Tom narrowed his gaze imperceptibly again (at least it was usually imperceptible. The fact this stranger mirrored the action suggested it hadn't slipped by his scrutiny.) He couldn't quite understand how this stranger had the information available to know his uncle's name and yet seemed ignorant of his fate. “My uncle died in an altercation with Aurors six years ago, as you're no doubt aware.” The curious tilt to his head suggested the other hadn't been aware. Why would he have some information but be so lacking in other details? “I received it from my grandfather before he was taken to Azkaban last July.” That wasn't entirely accurate, but near enough. His grandfather wanted nothing to do with him, and certainly didn't want any of his precious family heirlooms to pass to his tainted hands, but he'd acquired the ring regardless.

“And what was your grandfather sent to Azkaban for?” the teen demanded, his voice accusatory as though he held Tom guilty for his grandfather’s crime.

“Murder,” Tom answered after a pause. “Surely, if they didn't make you read the report, you’d have read about it in the _Word_.”

“ _The Word_?” the other asked, raising a speculative eyebrow.

_Really, how much of a moron could this boy be?!_

“ _Today’s Word_. The _newspaper_ ,” Tom bit out. How could this imbecile be some sort of expert in unknown forms of magical transportation? Was it all some twisted and ridiculous test? For what purpose? While Tom had plans for the future of the magical world, he'd done nothing that would draw attention to himself, nothing that would point to him, he was certain of it. What was this boy looking for?

“Pretend I haven't and enlightened me,” the other drawled out, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms expectantly, his poison gaze never leaving his target.

Tom crossed his own arms, matching the other’s pose. Was he expecting Tom would give more details than in the official account? Even if he had been involved, which he hadn't, he wouldn't be so foolish as to change his story or add previously unknown details. Why would this boy think he was involved anyway? He was in school at the time and had a long list of alibis, not that he'd even needed to give them during the initial investigation. He’d only been interviewed as a witness to his grandfather’s character. Personally, he hoped his testimony had added more years to the older wizard’s sentence rather than lessening them.

“He was accused of torturing muggles,” Tom outlined, his voice flat. “One of whom died later as a result of her injuries. Two Aurors turned up to question him, but one of them was one of the Aurors who had been involved in the fight that killed my uncle. He killed him in revenge and the other Auror went for back up. He was arrested and sentenced to Azkaban.”

“And who were these muggles he tortured?” the raven asked, the accusatory note still colouring his voice.

Tom's teeth snapped together viciously and his jaw set. It was all he could do to hold back his anger at this brat’s impertinence. “My father and grandparents,” he finally ground out, unable to keep the hatred from slipping into his voice.

The black haired teen cocked his head to one side, his killer-curse gaze never lightening, as he paused to consider Tom’s words. “And your grandmother died later of her injuries,” the youth finally commented, irritating Tom by pointing out the obvious.

Really, it was all in the papers for weeks. Tom had hated the attention and the false sympathy he'd received. No one understood. No one even truly bothered to check, to help.

“That what I said,” Tom sniped back, his control of his anger degrading further.

The youth leaned forward again, his elbows resting on the table before Tom's possessions and his fingertips steepling between them, seeming to channel the Transfiguration professor Tom hated so much. “Tell me about your father, Tom?”

If he'd been anyone else, Tom likely would have gotten whiplash from how quickly he leaning towards the middle of the table, his fingers spread and his palms pressed firmly against the wooden surface. “Shouldn't I be lying down on a couch to answer that?” he spat. He could feel his magic dancing under the surface of his skin, simply begging for release. Who was this stranger that knew him so well as to be able to cut him where it hurt with just a few words. This youth was even worse than Dumbledore. Those all seeing poison eyes left him feeling naked and exposed - _but they had nothing on him! They couldn't!_

The boy held his gaze, searching for… something… then he nodded in acceptance as though satisfied with whatever he’d seen. He briefly turned his eyes to the items before him and gently picked up the locket between them. “And where did you get this?” he asked, holding the chain aloft, all evidence of his previous accusations gone from his voice.

Tom didn't try to mask his annoyance this time. “From my mother,” he replied sharply.

Curiosity shone through those poison eyes once more, leaving Tom more confused. “And when did she give it to you?” he asked lightly, as though Tom's answer would determine his fate.

Tom was inwardly seething, but he still couldn't follow what the other expected of him, what he was searching for. “She gave it to me when I received my Hogwarts acceptance letter,” he told the youth through gritted teeth - _like it was any of his business_. She had given it to him as a piece of his heritage connecting him to the school he was to attend, proof that he was the founder’s heir, the first in their family for four generations to be offered a place in the prestigious magical school.

“I was under the impression that you grew up in an orphanage,” the raven threw back quickly in his deceptively bland tone.

Tom felt his eyes positively flash and he straightened in his seat. “I don't think my upbringing has anything to do with you,” he growled venomously. His magic flared around him, escaping his control at last, desperate to punish the fool before him that dared to goad him. By sheer force of will, he restrained the murderous urge, but his magic still hung darkly between them as a threat. However, the green eyed youth didn't seem the least bit intimidated but the display. In fact, the raven’s gaze darkened just as quickly as Tom's own, and Tom felt the other man’s magic lash angrily against his own, matching it in power and presence. Tom inwardly paused at the sensation of the raven’s magic warring against his own, magic that was almost seductive in its potency, but just as threatening as his own.

“And I don't think you understand that, right now, at this very moment, I hold your life in my hands,” the poison eyed stranger bit out coldly. “At my word you could walk free or be kissed to sleep by Dementors, _so answer the damn question!_ ”

Tom could barely keep his mouth from gaping, though there was a strong and furious tick in his jaw that he couldn't quite restrain. How could this boy have so much power over his life, over his _death_? He only appeared young, his accent betrayed him as a native citizen, yet he didn’t recognise the boy from Hogwarts. Just who was he that the Ministry would bow to his whims… or was he bluffing in an attempt to force answers out of him? Tom glared at the other, studying him closely for any tells. He didn't appear to be lying, but Tom didn't have enough information to be able to make educated guesses on what the emotions that slipped past the raven's controlled mask meant.

“Yes, I grew up in an orphanage,” he spat out, seeing no reason to lie about a fact the Ministry would already know about, but hating any reminder of that place.

“Then how did your mother give you _this_?” the teen demanded, holding the locket up once more so it swayed rhythmically above the table. It was a pendulum counting down what little time he had left, but he still didn't know what it was counting down to or how to avoid whatever fate awaited him when the clock finally struck.

“My mother gave me up because she couldn't afford to raise me on her own, because she couldn't escape my grandfather, and because my uncle and grandfather tried to kill me the few times I had the misfortune to meet them - _bad blood_ , you see. She visited me when she could, but it was only once every few months or so.”

Tom continued to gaze venomously at the other, just daring him to accuse his mother the same way he had Tom and his grandfather, but instead the raven’s eyes were briefly flooded with a sympathy that only made Tom want to punish him more.

“And where is your mother now, Tom?” the youth asked, his soft voice nothing like the commanding one he'd spoken with the rest of the interview.

Tom crossed his arms, glaring at the other. “I imagine she's still at home, undoubtedly worried if the school notified her I’m missing.” His voice was flat but cutting. “Have you lot even notified her I’m here, or would you prefer to keep her in the dark in case you decide to make me ‘ _disappear_ ’?” Tom was darkly satisfied to see a trace of guilt slip over the raven’s face, but it seemed he was right that his mother hadn't been informed. Did that mean that he truly might be ‘ _disappeared_ ’? The youth _had_ threatened Dementors… Tom’s hands convulsively clutched at his robes where his arms were crossed before he forced his grip to relax. One way or another, he would find his way out of this, and this green-eyed raven would be at the top of his revenge list.

The teen turned his focus back to the locket in his grasp. He studied it for a moment before slowly clipping it open. In either sides of the shells that made the locket, Tom could see the white wisps of memories, his own on the left and his mother’s on the right, but he forced himself not to react to the blatant breach of privacy. The youth inspected the memories, gently touching them with a finger which he quickly lifted up, pulling with it one of his mother’s memories and making it take shape in miniature form; her hugging him on his fifth birthday.

Tom's magic spiked again, and he wandlessly slammed the locket shut, cutting this rival off from his precious memories. He knew the gesture was pointless - the other had likely viewed the memories before even coming to the interview room, or would do so immediately upon leaving. All his response had done was betray his propensity to wandless magic, though he could still try to argue it as accidental magic as he hadn't actually intended to use that talent. He found it disconcerting to note, however, that the boy before him didn't seem the least bit surprised by this ability, although, considering the way their magic had fought not long ago, the raven probably guessed at what he was capable of, perhaps was even capable of similar feats of magic himself. That thought raised the question again of exactly who this youth was to have such magic at his fingertips, to have such sway over the Ministry, and to have such a uniquely frustrating ability to anger Tom and get beneath his skin.

The raven raised his eyebrow again before setting the locket back on the table. He steepled his fingertips once more, and Tom braced himself for another string of inexplicable questions. He wasn't disappointed.

“Have you heard of the Chamber of Secrets?”

Tom frowned, as might be expected from any current Hogwarts student, but otherwise refused to react. “Of course. I imagine everyone's heard of it by now.”

The other teen nodded slowly, his eyes understanding too much. “It was opened in in your fifth year, was it not?” he asked his voice calculating.

_He couldn't know. Surely he couldn't._

“That's right,” Tom agreed warily. “I hope you're not intending to implicate me because I’m a Slytherin,” he commented, trying to make any accusation from the raven sound more like bigotry than fact.

The other boy just smiled, but the grin was more teeth than anything that could be interpreted as friendly. “In more than just house, eh Riddle?” he replied with undisguised amusement. Tom resisted the urge to grind his teeth together, while the teen simply continued as though he hadn't taken a metaphorical jab at Tom's ancestry. “Tell me about the attacks.”

“I don't see what this has to do with me or whatever's going on here,” Tom rebutted, getting frustrated at being given the third degree with no answers of his own forthcoming.

“This has everything to do with you.” Tom didn't miss the ever so slight emphasis on the pronoun. “How many victims were there?”

“Six,” Tom answered sharply, wishing this interview was over, wishing he could just curse this nuisance.

“And what happened to them?”

Tom raised his eyebrow as the other continued to ask obvious questions, wondering yet again what he was searching for. “They were petrified,” he said simply.

“Was anyone killed?”

Tom frowned, thinking back on those events only a couple of years ago. “Not that I’m aware of,” he replied. Why was this poison eyed youth asking about a death that hadn't even occurred?

“Was anyone arrested or expelled for the attacks?”

Tom's frown deepened. The way the other asked the question - was being expelled supposed to be worse than being arrested? Was he threatening Tom? Because, if he was, it didn't sound like a very threatening threat, not at all like his earlier warning. “Not that I'm aware of,” he repeated, feeling wary once more.

The raven silently studied him again, and Tom still couldn't fathom what he was looking for, nor what he was seeing. “I heard it was an acromantula some second year was hiding in the dungeons,” the teen stated after a long pause with the air of one repeating schoolyard gossip.

Tom just looked at him like he'd grown a second head. “An acromantula would poison their victims, not petrify them, not to mention their bite would leave a nasty wound, if it didn't rip the victim’s limb off altogether. The victims were untouched. Acromantula are carnivores. If it petrified those students, which I've already pointed out that it couldn't have, it would have had an easy lunch and there would have been nothing to save.”

The other studied him contemplatively, but Tom could see that none of his reasoning came as any sort of surprise to the dark haired youth. It was another of those mind boggling tests that he couldn't puzzle out. Tom was beginning to see a pattern however. It seemed this stranger was pulling out any crimes that had occurred around himself or his family, trying to find any way to pin them to Tom regardless of whether he was guilty or not. Tom wouldn't be implicated so easily, however, no matter whether it was his crime or not.

Considering this apparent pattern in questioning, Tom tried to predict what the next topic would be. As the silence dragged out between them, Tom could just feel that the other was about to jump to another seemingly random topic, something else to try to make him sound guilty of. Tom tried to guess what it might be, but, when the next question came, he realised he never could have anticipated such a jump, and his blood ran cold.

“What do you know about horcruxes?” the other asked lightly.

Tom didn't react. He wouldn't react. Under no circumstances could he react.

_How could he know?! No one knew! How did this stranger know of his research?! What else did he know?!_

“I’m afraid I haven't heard that term before,” Tom answered blandly.

The green eyes before him flashed. Tom gave nothing away, but he couldn't help but believe the other had caught his lie. The poisonous green darkened and the lush lips twisted upward into a smirk. When the raven spoke, his voice was indulgent, as though he knew Tom was fully aware of their subject, but he was willing to play along regardless. “A horcrux,” he explained, “is an object with a piece of a person’s soul sealed inside it, created through the act of murder. The horcrux anchors the soul to the physical world so that if that person’s body dies, their spirit does not, and they can gain a new body. Until the horcrux is destroyed, that person becomes functionally immortal.”

Those eyes glittered as he spoke, warning Tom that any misstep now would bear fatal consequences.

“Soul magic is illegal,” Tom pointed out, his voice perfectly level and controlled. Under no circumstances would he betray himself and his knowledge of dark and illegal magics.

The raven leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed upon his chest once more as he studied him speculatively. Tom hated the sensation of being looked upon and treated like he was nothing more than a thing to study. “Supposing you know no more than I've just explained to you,” the other began, his tone making it clear that he didn't believe Tom's denial and yet giving him an ‘out’ just the same, “explain to me what the biggest fault of a horcrux is.”

Tom lifted his is chin, meeting the challenging gaze. Just what sort of answer was the other looking for? Murder, of course, was not endorsed by the Ministry, and, by apparent extension, by the youth before him, yet that easy answer felt like a trap. Wouldn't that be what others would see as the biggest fault of a horcrux? Wouldn't a self-declared light wizard or witch jump to that as being the biggest problem, that another life would have to be taken to ensure the continuation of their own?

But this stranger knew him too well. His gaze seemed to pierce right through him, like nothing was hidden from his sight. Even his name when the other had spoken it held an intimacy born of knowledge of the other. Tom had no problem with the concept of murder. Why would he? Everyone would die eventually, so did it matter if he sped up the process to ensure he wouldn't be like them? He couldn't lie to this stranger. He was certain that if he did so it would be his last mistake. So, discounting the obvious (and false) answer of murder, what could be the biggest fault with horcruxes?

The poison eyes before him shone with the power and threat of the killing curse as Tom came to his decision, to give the answer he had divined for himself while extensively researching the topic, and the curl of the other’s lips let him know the other knew he was about to answer honestly.

Was he a Legilimens? Tom hadn't noticed any presence against his Occlumency shields… Or was he an Empath? They were rare, but it could explain how the other was so perfectly able to rile him up and correctly interpret everything he didn't say. The only other option was that this teen simply knew him that well, but how could he when they'd never met? Tom would find out, he was determined to, but first he had to answer, to pass the test this enigma had set him.

“Dementors,” Tom told the youth cooly. “When they suck out a person’s soul, there's nothing left that is them, just an empty body. If someone sealed a piece of their soul in an object, a horcrux, then that piece of themselves would be just as lost to them. Breaking their soul would break them. It would drive them insane.”

Tom's skin crawled at the victory he saw flashing in the other’s eyes. Had he made the wrong choice? Should he have pleaded for the ridiculous notion of the sanctity of life instead? No one was innocent, no one was above death, so why deny it? But had his honest answer just brought his own death nearer?

“Well done,” the raven told him, his voice soft but mocking. “It seems you're the cleverer of the two.” _Like that made any sense…_

Without warning, the poison eyed teen deposited his ring, locket and wand back in the box, closing the lid before pushing it across the table to the Slytherin student. “Word of advice, Riddle,” he announced sharply at he stood up from his chair, “stay out of my way, and don't give me any reason to come looking for you.”

Tom couldn't help but feel utterly bewildered by the sudden change, by the strange teen’s abrupt departure.

“Wait,” Tom began, quickly jumping to his own feet. “Just who are you? And what are you supposed to be an expert in anyway?”

The boy paused at the door, then slowly turned back to face the other. His viridian eyes burned the colour of death, and his lips twisted into a sneer of distaste. When he spoke, somehow his very answer sounded like the most dangerous of threats, a promise of the consequences if Tom did anything to step out of line. “Why Tom, I’m Harry Potter, and I'm an expert in _you_.”

A few minutes later, Tom was still staring at the closed door, trying to piece together exactly what had happened.


End file.
